We liked to shimmer glamorously behind the silhouette
of retrospective good times …..
You might call them sculpture, beautiful lovers
befitting characters in an F. Scott novel.
In the sun, their clothing gleams porcelain white.
Cotton–silk that complements
the blue ocean and bicycle
they both lean against, listening
for an echo. Something that recites
the scene; water, wind, the wail
of shore birds on the horizon, but nothing
of their own voice.
If they were to speak, confess
what is crucial, they might
fall away with the tide or sea gull
lowering his glide behind the pines.
The woman tilts her hat, the man twists his cufflinks.
Angled differently, their accessories
draw more light. Like ghosts
they dissolve in the glare, absolved
of finding their real perspective.